


Heating Pads and Healing Words

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Series: Ironstrange and Supremefamily Stories [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 4 am, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Doctor Strange and Peter Parker Talking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Healing, Heating Pads, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Precious Peter Parker, Stark Tower, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14742638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: When its 4 a.m. and Stephen can't sleep because of his hands, he isn't expecting the bit of help and good company that come from a friendly neighborhood Spiderman...





	Heating Pads and Healing Words

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, I just think the relationship between these two has the potential to be really sweet. I'm also eight layers into Ironstrange hell at the moment. 
> 
> got requests? hmu, I'm in a writing mood right now! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at this same name! I have other Ironstrange fics up if you enjoyed this one as well!

He pressed his forehead to the outside of the freezer, glad that the usual chatter of wayward superheroes in the living area was gone. It was nearly four in the morning, and though he had gone to bed alone, he had not woken up that way. But he had woken again, the pain too much to continue lying there, no matter how comforting he found Tony’s presence, even if at the moment he smelled like grease and Murhphy’s Oil Soap and had wrapped himself in all the blankets like a small burrito with only a tuft of dark hair sticking out of the top.

He lifted one hand, pressing it against the refrigerator next to his head. It was throbbing, the pain radiating beyond his damaged fingers all the way to his elbow, beyond even to ache in the crux of his shoulder. He tried to lift his fingers, trying to stretch them out the same way he had never been able to manage in therapy. In a moment of pure agony, his muscle fibers feeling as though they were tearing at the joints, he remembered his physical therapist. The optimistic, kind man who he had lambasted for weeks for simply trying to help. Perhaps this is karma for that moment, for all the insults he hurled while in pain and feeling exalted in his own arrogance. He feels tears press at his eyes as he relaxes the muscles again: He isn’t sure if they are for his own pain, or the man that he knows he used to be.

He lets them run down his face, tilting his head so that top presses against the door. He raises his other hand to the counter, trying to flatten it out. It doesn’t hurt as badly as the other at the moment, but that doesn’t keep the gasp from his lips as his own body fights against him again and again and again with each strain and his index fingers feels like the bone is splintering along the joints.

“Doctor Strange, Sir?” He turns around slowly, recognizing the voice and debating what the do for the split-second it takes, feeling the tears run freely down his face, hands held in front of him, shaking violently. The boy’s eyes widen, his mask held in his hands as he stops walking. “Are you—are you alright?”

He sounds like a child. He is a child, he remembers. A child with an unreasonable amount of power and an even larger heart, which is beating much faster as it looks at the red, inflamed, scarred hands of one Stephen Strange who is standing shirtless in a kitchen that isn’t even his own.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, Peter?”

“I got distracted talking to MJ. Did a late night sweep. Didn’t want to wake up Aunt May.” Peter said, all so rapidly that he was amazed he could keep it all straight. “And its Friday.”

“Right.” He had hoped the question would be enough of a distraction, but Peter’s eyes were still fixed on his hands, even as he sat in one of the stools of the counter so he could rest the backs of them on the cool marble. It provided a moment, a second, an instant of sweet relief before that too went away. It was enough to stop the tears, the gasps, and allow him to look at Peter with the intent of having an actual conversation. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Yeah,” Peter slid into a stool across from him. “Most days afterschool. I usually don’t stay the night, but I don’t want to go home if its too late. Aunt May has work in the morning, so I sleep on the couch sometimes.”

“Right,” He meant to say more, but couldn’t as his hand throbbed with another contraction, this time his entire right hand seeming to cramp at once, the old surgery injuries too inflamed to stop the spasms.

“You need somethin’ for that?” Peter asked, his voice thick. “I can get some ice. I know where Mr. Stark keeps the heating pads and stuff.”

He blinked, sucking in another breath of air. “A heating pad would be wonderful, actually,” He finally said, lifting his other hand to his face to hide the twisting of his features there. In seconds, it seemed, Peter had come back, arms full of cords and blue wraps. He plugged them into the wall, unwrapping them haphazardly, but laying one carefully on the table. Stephen lifted his hand carefully, barely moving at all, and set it on the pad, letting the warmth move up from his wrist to his fingers as Peter plugged in a second one and laid it on top.

“It’s like a hand sandwich,” He said, smiling at his own joke, even as Stephen looked at him pointedly. “Say, Dr. Strange…What happened to your hands?” After a few moments, barely heartbeats, of silence, he blushed dark red. “You don’t have to tell me, I mean its your business. Your hands, ya know? I’m gonna go change.” And he was off the stool and headed to one of the bathrooms before Stephen could so much as breathe.

He thought about the question. Peter had certainly meant nothing by it except innocent curiosity.  And why wouldn’t he be curious. He doubted that on the occasions he had spent the night in Stark Tower, he hadn’t encountered any other Avengers crying shirtless into the freezer. Peter was worried, and Stephen knew he had always taken issue with other people being worried about him. He had lashed out at Kristine, at the Ancient One, at Wong, even at Tony from time to time. On nights like this. Maybe that was why he had left the bed to begin with, instead of letting Tony hold his hands between his own like he did sometimes, soothe the pain with natural warmth. He treasured those nights, and, at the same time, avoided their necessity. 

He was able to stretch his hand a bit, the heat soothing the ache, as he heard rustling behind him. “I can go to sleep, Dr. Strange, Sir. I usually sleep on this couch, but you can leave the light on, sir.”

“Peter,” He answered, and the kid turned around, not meeting his eyes, still worried he had offended him. “Thank you for getting me these.” He said, wiggling his arm to show off the heating pad. “Sit back down, and we can talk. Unless you’d rather sleep?” He said, meaning it, but Peter sat down eagerly, hand wrapped around the stool as he spun to face him, wearing a pair of what Stephen certainly knew were Tony’s pajamas, the red plaid pants similar to the entirety of Tony’s (usually optional) nighttime wardrobe.

“You’re welcome,” Peter said, more relieved than anything that he wasn’t mad. “Is it helping?”

“Yes.” He said, knowing his voice still sounded strained, but less than it had been.

“Aunt May keeps as bunch in the living room in case I come home with “minor injuries” “ He made air quotes with his fingers around minor injuries, and Stephen had to smile slightly at the thought of him getting one of hundreds of talks about his vigilante work, “I thought it might help.” His voice has softened as he looked at Stephen’s hand still pressed between them.

“What is it you want to do Peter?” He said, “When you graduate high school, I mean?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I want to do what Mr. Stark does.”

“Technology.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” He said, running a hand through his hair that nearly bounced on his head, “Help people, mostly. There a lot of people who need help.”

“You feel obligated?” Stephen could understand that feeling. Knew that feeling more than most, and remembered one of his many bands of shouting at the Ancient One after killing one of Kaecilius’ zealots. In hindsight, that seemed thousands of threats ago. Perhaps it had been thousands. He remembered that feeling, buried underneath the weight of his own ego as he pulled shrapnel and bullets from brains, as he cut away at tumors and corroded matter, drilled to relieve pressures from meningitis or died for the thousandth time to stop Dormammu.

“My Uncle Ben told me that with great power comes great responsibility.” Peter smiled, his eyes suddenly far away from Stephen, from Stark Tower even as his eyes fixed on the toaster behind him. “I think there’s a reason I’m Spiderman, ya know? So I…I try to help people.”

“Do you live with your uncle as well?”

“No. No no no,” Peter spoke rapidly, shaking his head with each no, his hair bouncing. Stephen could hear the straining there. Peter’s uncle was dead, like everyone else it seemed. It explained his almost paternal attachment to Tony, but there was a twinge in Stephen’s chest all the same. Mainly guilt for asking, but a prick of familiarity. He knew what it felt like to lose, to lose someone so close to you that you couldn’t quite ever really talk about them the same way again. “He died last year. He and Aunt May have had me since I was a little kid.”

“Your Aunt is an incredible person.” He said, and was relieved to see Peter cock a half-smile.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “I feel bad sometimes,” He looked up, eyes narrowing as he thought to himself, wringing his hands together. “You ever feel bad when you’re doing your magic stuff? Mr. Stark was telling me about it, how you got through the multiverse and protect the Earth from otherworldly threats and stuff, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk about it, so I didn’t ask…” Peter was rambling again, flicking his gaze at and away from Stephen’s face so quickly that it barely registered.

Stephen let out a breathy laugh, closing and opening his fingers slowly between the pads, practically able to feel the swelling going down after what seemed to be hours of agony. “There’s nobody back here worrying about me,” He commented, using his other hand to press the top wrap onto the back of his hands, letting the heat seep in.

It took him a moment to register that Peter was staring at him, eyebrows lifted, lips pressed into a thin line. “You weren’t serious,” He said as Stephen looked up at him finally, startled by the intensity. “Cause I’ve been here with Mr. Stark when you were gone. The last time, right after---right after Thanos, when you had to go through that portal for a couple of days…he was a mess.” Peter said the last part in a whisper.

He blinked. Thinking of a very similar incident when Tony had left on Avengers business, doing something minor in a foreign country for all of 72 hours. Wong had come into the library, insisting that Stephen stop entertaining himself by dropping books through constantly moving portals in all levels of the Sanctum. He hadn’t realized he was doing it, resisting the urge to portal himself to some odd place and wrap his arms around Tony until he could be certain he was safe, fall into bed with him and exhaust them both until Tony wrapped himself in all the covers again and he woke with that same tuft of hair pressed up under his chin, tickling it softly before Tony woke up to make breakfast while the rest of the tower slept and paid them a few precious moments of privacy outside of their room.

“And I…I mean, I care, too.” Peter said, straightening his back. “You…you mean a lot to me.”

Stephen smiled, still not quite able to believe it. Who was the last person who told him something like this? Tony tried, he tried to carry his heart on his sleeve where it could press against Stephen’s own. But it was met with a wall. Not in reciprocation, he was happy to tell Tony exactly how precious he was to him, how much he valued not only his companionship, but all aspects of their relationship. But when the words would come back, whispered in the dark over a thin layer of sweat-sheened skin, or after sharing two cups of dark roast coffee when they came out as warm as sweet as his own brew, he found them hard to swallow. So many times in his life, people had fed him lies. For his help in class, for his money, out of parental obligation, that he worried there was part of him that would never accept it. It had destroyed his relationship with Christine, slowly mending as he worked to repair their friendship from the sharp severing he himself had caused. He knew that it frustrated Tony, where he could see the pain in his eyes as he turned away from him sometimes, wanting Stephen to know.

“Thank you, Peter.” He smiled at the boy, who sucked in a breath, “I care about you, too. I’ve enjoyed our last few months.” He let out a pained gasp as he was finally able to close his hands into the semblance of a fist that he had come to accept the last few couple of years. “And thank you for this. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t showed up actually.”

“Mr. Stark’s been working on something for your hands.” Peter said, before clamping a hand over his own mouth. He blushed as deep red as his suit, peeking around the corner to make sure Tony wasn’t there. “Not any chance you already knew that?”

He smiled, looking down at his hands and shaking his head, wondering what Tony might create that could possibly help him. He was surprised at the twinge of hope in his chest, it was not something he had felt in a long time. He had stopped resenting his hands long ago, when he had accepted that this was his fated path in this universe. But accepting his changed abilities did not make the chronic pain go away. It didn’t keep nights like this from happening when he had briefly considering sticking his hands in the freezer to cool the inflamed muscles, though that would only damage them in the long run. To have some real though that something might help permanently...it was far too much like a dream for him to want to dwell on the thought. 

“Don’t, uh, don’t tell him I told you that, please, Dr. Strange…It was supposed to be a surprise. For Christmas, I think. Or something.”

“Peter,” He stopped the panicked talking with a quiet, smiling tone. “I won’t tell.” The boy smiled broadly, looking even younger than he was. He looked at the bags under the kid’s eyes, knowing he was exhausted, and Stephen knew he would sit up talking the whole night so that Stephen didn’t have to sit in pain alone. Even if it was Friday night, he didn’t want that.

“Do you mind putting these back where you got them?” He pulled his hand out slowly, the skin flushed with heat but no longer nearly as swollen. “I think I’ll try going to bed.”

“Okay,” Peter said, looking at his hands one more time as he started to wrap the cords back up. Stephen walked to the fridge, taking a quick drink of water before turning around to see Peter there again, one hand in his hair.

“Goodnight, Doctor Strange.” Peter moved his arms around, rolling his blanket to his shoulder.

“Goodnight, Peter.” He said with a soft smile. “Thank you again. For the heating pads,” He lifted his hand so Peter could see the improvement. “And the talk. We’ll have to talk more when it isn’t four in the morning.”

Peter laughed, trying to suppress a yawn as he spoke. “Mr. Stark wouldn’t be happy if we made this a regular thing.”

Stephen watched him practically collapse on the couch before turning to go back down the hallway, waving his elbow over the light sensor so that it turned off and the kid could sleep. Tony had only managed to roll onto his side, blankets haphazardly pulled around him. He slipped into the bed behind him, pressing his chest to Tony’s back, who snuggled back into the warmth Stephen offered. The sharp pains had faded to a dull ache, soothed ever so slightly again as he wrapped an arm around Tony, who shifted so that he was completely wrapped in the blanket as well, giving only a soft sign that he had woken up for a brief second, enough to realize that Stephen had come back to bed.

Sleep was far easier in coming now, dark dreams of his lost sister and a faceless uncle to Peter Parker and Thanos and those horrible words he had yelled at Christine and the Ancient One’s vanishing and Karl’s departure and his hundreds of deaths at the hands of Dormammu held at bay for at least one night as he thought about what Peter had told him. That Peter cared. That Tony cared. That Tony was working on something for him, that he knew how badly nights like these were.That despite what he might think he deserved for being the man he was, he was no longer alone.

“I love you,” He whispered to the back of Tony’s head, a soft, sleep, unintelligible mumble the only response.              


End file.
